


Comes Marching Home

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Recovery, Reimbodiment, Reunions, mothers and sons, the Valar are useless when it comes to helping elves recover from trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After many years in the Halls of Mandos, Argon returns to his Anairë in Tirion, but he is much changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comes Marching Home

“Arakáno? Arakáno! Can you hear me?”

He screwed up his face, not wanting to open his eyes. The world was too loud, pressing in at his senses, sending shooting pains through his head. He opened his eyes anyway, forcing the lids open against the burning light above.

He could see colours, which didn’t make sense at first. Until they _did_ , becoming a very familiar face; warm dark eyes so like his own, filled with concern.

Arakáno sat up, too quickly, making his head spin anew. “ _Amil?_ ”

Or at least, that was what he had been trying to say, the word coming out as a broken half-cough.

His mother’s warm arms were around him then, holding him gently as he half sat up, his muscles still weak and unfamiliar. She was kissing his cheek, the dampness of her tears and her laughter in his ear punching through his raw consciousness like wet tissue paper tearing. He felt himself go limp in her arms as another wave of surreallity and nausea overtook him, and he clung to her desperately, inhaling her scent that instantly brought back memories of his childhood. 

“It’s alright” his mother was murmuring. “Little one, my boy, my sweet son. My Arakáno, it’s going to be alright. I promise.” She stroked his hair and held him. Once, he thought dimly as memories of his old life, of having a body, began to rush back to him, he would have protested, pushed her away, told her he was too old, a warrior, a proud prince.

Now, in his strange new body, he merely let himself sag in her arms, feeling the warmth of life and her voice and the new patterns of his own body and thoughts wash over him.

And then, without warning, a sob was tearing itself from his own throat, and there were hot tears on his face.

“Amil” he sobbed, overwhelmed. “Please forgive me, I failed him, I failed you, I shouldn’t have left…  _died_ … never should have…”

“Shhh” she murmured, rocking him in her arms as though he were a child once more, although her voice trembled. “Shhh, Arko. You’re safe now. It’s… everything is going to be fine.”

———-

 ** _Anairë_**  

She had moved back into the old house on the long boulevard that led up to the palace, in preparation for Arakáno’s arrival. The memories clustered in the corners, thicker than the dust.

She brought her son back by carriage; she had been told what to expect, about the weakness that many felt immediately after being reimbodied. Some, she had heard, had to relearn how to walk entirely.

On the journey back, he sat mostly in silence as she told him, in stumbling, halting words, of the bland details of her everyday life, even as she took in every detail of his face, hardly daring to believe that he was real. His hair, she noticed, was longer than she had ever seen it, falling in thick curls about his face and down to his shoulders where before he had preferred to crop it short.

His face was paler than it had once been, his pale golden brown skin – she remembered those endless summers, the Treelight tanning all her children’s skin to a deep brown – carrying a pallor that left her concerned. But his quick eyes followed her, and he even managed a smile that made her heart light with joy. “Arakáno” she said, reaching out to cup his cheek. His hand landed upon hers, squeezing it as though he would never let go.

When they stepped out of the carriage, Arakáno did relatively well on his new feet, she thought, only tripping a few times. She was there holding his arm through every stumble.

He had been barely more than a child when he had first grown taller than her, she remembered. He had been small, as a baby, but when he had reached adolescence he had shot up at an alarming rate, all longs limbs and clumsy feet like a young fawn. She smiled at the memory as he clutched her arm, clearly shamed. “Oh Arko” she said, smiling up at him and hushing her voice as he winced a little at the sudden sound of speech. “You’re doing well. Come on. We’ll be home soon.”

He nodded mutely and followed, but she thought he was content.

Then he fell to his knees.

Anairë let out a cry of fear. _Was there something wrong? Had his reimbodiment gone awry?_ “Arko” she said, kneeling down beside him, “What - ”

“The grass” he said, running his fingers through it reverently. His eyes were full of tears once more. “It smells… just like it always did.” He seemed to collect himself then, looking aggrieved. “Amil, I am sorry if I worried you. It’s just… it has been _so long_  since I have seen anything green and growing.”

Anairë let her arms slip about his shoulders, and they sat there together, kneeling on the grass in front of the house, for a long time.

The days passed, and Arakáno grew stronger, more steady on his feet. And yet he seemed troubled, his dark eyes flashing with some pain that she felt he was trying to save her from.

She could have reached out to touch his mind, but she did not. She knew enough to see that there were things that he did not want to tell her. Not yet, anyway.

He had let her cut and braid his hair for him, and the very motions had made her feel more herself than she had in centuries.

“Don’t look into the sun, Arakáno” she had said, coming out to stand beside him.

He looked at her, instead. “I am sorry, Amil.”

“There’s no sorry about it. It will hurt your eyes.”

He looked at her for a long time, then sighed and went back into the house.

Anairë drifted in fitful, dream-tossed sleep.

“Arakáno?”

She woke with the name upon her lips. Driven by a strange, irrational compulsion, she rose, going to his room.

He was gone.

Fear lit in her then, cold fingers squeezing her heart.  _He was gone, he had never really returned to her perhaps, it had all been her imagination, a long and vivid dream…_  but no, she thought.

The door was open, and the moonlight shone down from the trapdoor to the roof.

She scrambled up onto the tiles, hauling herself up through the opening. “Arakáno?” she cried, her voice rising slightly in fear. “Arakáno!”

For a moment she saw nothing, spin around, almost losing her footing on the roof tiles. Then something caught in the corner of her eye.

He was there, sitting on the edge of the parapet, his long legs dangling in the air over the brink. He was staring up at the moon, but he turned to face her when he heard her voice. “Here, Amil.”

She sat down beside him, holding him tightly.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you” he said.

She was silent for a long moment, leaning her head against his shoulder and holding him. She had always known that with Arakáno, it was easier to get him to say what was on his mind if one let him come to it himself.

“I never saw the moon” he said at last, the words catching a little in his throat. “I died, too early. I never saw it, but it’s beautiful.”

She nodded. “We saw it rise, here. I could think only of you.”  _She remembered when she had heard. She remembered imagining Arakáno dying, blood pouring from his wounds as Ñolofinwë held him, crying out in anguish_ … she shuddered.

He looked at her. “I’m sorry if I caused you pain” he said softly, taking her hands in his own. “I know you dreamt of us across the sea. I’m sorry if - ”

“Arakáno.” She looked him in the eye. “You did what you thought was right. You are alive now, and safe.”

He nodded. After a while he wrenched his hand from hers and slammed his fist against the stone beside him, with a snarl of fury. “Stupid! I was so _stupid_. And reckless, and useless, and - ”

“Arakáno.” She stopped him again, more firmly this time.

“What? I should have been there to help them. I threw away my life, Amil. I saw how Atar died, and Irissë and Finno and Turno. Námo showed me, in the Halls. I should have… I should have…” he was sobbing, once again. “Forgive me. Please… please forgive me. I was a warrior; I should have been there to protect them, but I only wanted to show my bravery. I was an arrogant child, knowing nothing.”

Anairë held him tightly in her arms. “Many were such” she said, stroking his hair soothingly as he cried, great shuddering sobs against her shoulder. “But I do not think you were one of them. Besides” she let out a bitter laugh. “You weren’t alone, rushing into danger too soon. It seems like something of a family tradition.” She kissed his temple. “I only wish you had not had to go through the suffering of death, and…” she swallowed. “What came after.”  _Námo showed him the deaths of his siblings, of his father,_ she thought.  _How could the Vala possibly have healing in mind? How was that anything other than cruel?_  She curled her hands into fists.

He pulled back, his eyes red. “Will you… will you forgive me, mother?”

“For what?”

“For leaving. For dying, and putting you through pain. For not protecting them.”

“Arakáno.” She held him close. “I know you never listened to me as a child. I know how stubborn you can be, trust me I do.” She gave a watery chuckle. “But hear me.” She looked him in the eye once more. “There is absolutely nothing to forgive. Do you understand, my son?”

He nodded. “I understand, Amil.”

“Good.”

He leaned towards her, and she laid her head against his shoulder, sharing warmth in the cold night air.

With their arms around each other they sat there on the roof until a rosy glow began to appear in the east, the moon fading as the dawn began to break. 


End file.
